Latest revision as of 07:51, May 25, 2011

The novel An Authentic Journal of Travelers on the Oregon Trail
is also available in paperback.

In 1848, five intrepid American trailblazers set off from Independence, Missouri, to settle in the Williamette Valley in Oregon. They were never heard from again.

However, in 1985, their story was rediscovered when a group of modern travellers, living in conditions far safer than those of old, stumbled upon a body miraculously preserved within a sealed Conestoga wagon. Beside the corpse lay a log of the travels and trials this man had gone through with his fellow passengers. This log would be published as An Authentic Journal of Travelers on the Oregon Trail.

All that would be known of the travellers aside from their inspiring stories were their names: Steve, a carpenter from Ohio; Don; Bill; Paul; and Snot.

I recently purchased a fine color daguerreotype machine. However, due to exposure problems, all the roads look far too black.

We set off from Independence today. Ironic, the name. By leaving Independence, we pursue it. Oh, never mind.

Cool weather and everyone's in good health, so I reckon we should start off at a grueling pace. We can afford filling rations, if my calculations are correct. We have 1500 lbs of food with us, and I reckon it shouldn't take us more than a hundred days, what with ten oxen pulling our wagon.

Most of my friends, especially Snot—who was especially eager to render the Western buffalo extinct—wanted me to load the wagon up with bullets. However, on account of my not choosing to pursue a career in banking, my options were severely limited. We have 200 bullets, and with my marksmanship that should suffice. We also have 10 sets of clothing, 3 wagon wheels, 3 wagon axles, 3 wagon tongues, and exactly $90 left over after our purchases.

We've reached the Kansas River crossing. The weather is turning rather hot. We'll attempt to ford the river later in the day.

. . .

Alas! Fording the river did not transpire as planned. Despite our mysteriously conveniently accurate knowledge of the depth of the river, we foolishly pushed on. As a result, Don drowned. Furthermore, we lost all extra sets of clothing, 165 bullets, all spare wagon wheels and tongues, one spare axle, and six oxen. We got the bullet count strangely soon.

Are these settlers out of their minds? These trades that they have suggested for the past week are doubtlessly lousy! I refused them all, naturally. Except for the time I traded an ox for a spare wheel.

It has only occurred to me just now that we have no choice but to cross the river. Since fording the river ended in utter disaster, we shall attempt to caulk the wagon. We appear to have an otherworldly supply of tar to plug the wagon floor.

Are we forsaken?! We caulked the wagon—it tipped. Snot drowned. The poor guy will never get to hunt down a single buffalo. More importantly, we lost the wagon wheel, the sole result of my intense bargaining at the other side of the crossing!

No time for mourning, though. We must quickly move to Fort Kearney, and we must make up for this lost time.

Suddenly the good trades have subsided. The worst thing is that nobody wants the bullets. We ended up buying 4 sets of clothing. Now we are almost broke, but this is perfectly all right since none of the settlers appear willing to trade anything for money.

Arrived at Chimney Rock. While I imagine it is awfully sublime in the moonlight, I was unable to see it clearly. Since setting off from Independence, all of us appear to have contracted an eye disorder, which affects our vision such that we see rectangles that barely form a coherent image.

We bought the wrath of many fellow settlers by passing to the right. I asked for their forgiveness. We have still halfway to go, and now our rations are meagre. We will have to take the shortcut to Green River, even if it kills us.

Strangely, all the bear seemed to pass right through me. This experience was rather disconcerting. However, today I managed to count a total of 2032 pounds of meat. I am quite sure I have rendered as many subspecies extinct. However, I could only bring back 100 pounds. Next time, I must make sure to construct a wheelbarrow before I go hunting.

Although I was literally facing the Blue Mountains, on a daguerreotype they seem rather small, and appear to be floating in a vast black void.

I see the BlueMountains, but alas! I must continue to head for the Dalles. I've been having some problems with the water supply, so I hope I don't get dysentery. If I do get dysentery, it will throw all of my plans into disarray.

Steve appears to have died the very next day. Eventually, his body, possessions and journal were all found mysteriously preserved inside his wagon in 1990. A tombstone was erected, with the following inscription: